


Praecoquere

by dulceflowercrowns



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Dialogue Light, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friendship/Love, I literally don't even know?, Light Angst, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulceflowercrowns/pseuds/dulceflowercrowns
Summary: Reimagined fast paced snippets of Charmie moments I did for fun/out of boredom but they might somehow eventually become a full story?Peaches are ironically and purposely involved.They're friends now but they might become more... so that light angsty is-this-platonic crack I live for. Enjoy?





	1. Peach Cobbler & Ice Crema

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I re-read Timmy's speech for Armie's Variety award and I got a little carried away...
> 
> Or the one where I don't hate Liz (how could I ever tf?) but she needed to be "out of state" so domestic adorable Charmie could shine with our 2 favorite Hammer kids because its nice to think about the Texas Film Awards like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Armie and Liz love each other. This total piece of trash fiction my brain sprouted doesn't change that or the true events in Austin.
> 
> When he suits up, picture Armie in his L'Officiel look. Timmy is still Texas Film Awards Timmy, but maybe with bouncier curls? xxx

March 7th-8th, 2018

_**"Hey, Timmy, get your ass to Austin. I'm calling in my favor." -an actual quote from Armie Hammer...**_

Timmy's first night in Dallas, Texas ended with his suitcase half unpacked in his hotel room, the bathroom sink still running, mismatched socks, tequila shots downtown, and a cab selfie nobody remembers taking where Timmy is resting on Nick's shoulder, playing the drooled-on pillow to a drunken Armie. They're all wearing feather boas and have their hoods pulled over their eyes, the two conscious members of the group throwing up peace signs in the amber glow of a passing streetlamp. 

The trio keeps personal copies of the Polaroid to this day, each putting theirs in places that also horde things like yearbooks, ticket stubs from first dates, and sonograms. Cozy memories people don't want to lose.

*******

The next day to quell their hangovers, after lots of hugs and kisses and  _"Travel safe and call me when you get there and wish your uncle a Happy Birthday from us'"_  for Elizabeth, they'd gone out to Mooyah (minus Nick- the tequila  _really_  hadn't agreed with him) because, being a city boy, Timmy had never had it before ("They're the best fast food burgers around and I don't care how you feel about spicy shit, we're getting the Double Diablos"). So they'd gone and joked and kicked under the plastic table and snorted like stoned high schoolers with hoods up, caps low, shades pushed into their hairlines, diablo sauce dribbling down their fingers and shadowed chins where the kids in their laps tried to swipe a greedy taste.

Hops and Ford made a greasy French fry fort, Armie gave himself a milkshake-stache and a brainfreeze in one go, ("Daddy's a big ol genius, isn't he Ford? Yes he is. Yes he is!") and by the time the food was gone and the restaurant's playlist had restarted  _again_ and the kids grew a little fidgety and restless, neither one of the guys really wanted to go. They were having  _fun_  and they hadn't seen each other in almost a week since the Academies and even longer without cameras and interviewers at the ready and things felt nice and relaxed now.

But Armie wasn't on a quick break like Timmy was and they had responsibilities later that night.

Or  _he_  had responsibilities that night.

*******

"Hey Armie?"

"Yeah Joe, what's up?"

"We're not too sure you're still getting that Variety award. There's been so many mixups we've been trying to file through... just wanted to forewarn you before you brought anyone out..."

*******

When Timmy asked if he was okay, Armie was confident in his answering 'yes'. So what if he didn't win something tonight? To _day_  had been decidedly great. And this just meant the event wouldn't require as much hooplah and fuss around it. Armie could be in, out, and come back home in no time. Timmy didn't even need to come with him, now that there was no award to present. It had nothing to do with a slight bout of shame. No, Armie would just much rather the kids have a familiar babysitter with them tonight instead of whoever Elizabeth hired, if that was okay with Timmy.

"Of course I'll watch them. You just focus on having a good time."

So they cleaned up, tipped big, flicked their shades back on, and left the air conditioned bubble of Mooyahs to head back out to the humid parking lot and strap the kids into their car seats.

*******

Halfway through the drive home Harper caught a sneezing fit ("Must be the dry heat") that successfully cut through Timmy's torturous reign of blasting the Moana soundtrack, and while Armie was busy driving, sighing in relief as the radio was turned down, Timmy dug in his sweatpants until he'd fished out tissues to arch around in his seat and press gently against the little girl's nose.

"Wriggle your nose and blow really hard when I count to 3, okay?"

And Harper listened, let Timmy help her blow her nose, meeting his bigger hand in an ambitious high-five when she was all done and smiling wide, neither one of them noticing how her captivated father almost missed his green light from staring softly at them in the rear view mirror.

*******

They were running late because Timmy still had his things at the hotel and that didn't make much sense since he was only gonna be in town for one more day and since he was in  _Armie's town_ for crying outloud.

"Just stay at our place, T. Duh."

_Duh._

So they made a detour to the hotel, found Timmy's decidedly  _not_  lost room key ("Dude, you gotta stop stashing stuff in your socks and then forgetting them there"), got all his things together and checked him out with tiredly giggling kids on their shoulders, calling Elizabeth on the drive back to the house to ensure that, yes, she'd gotten to the airport safe and sound and there was dinner in the fridge for the kids, plus one.

*******

When the sun was setting and Atlantis: The Lost Empire was rolling its end credits, Armie came jogging into the living room, blushing, beard freshly trimmed, smelling minty and clean, asking Timmy for help with his bowtie.

Timotheé unfolded himself from between sofa cushions, discarded toys, a large bowl of kettle corn, and two groggy children to wipe his buttery sweet fingers in a paper towel and wave his friend closer.

"You're nervous," he observed from under the bill of his black cap, brows furrowed, piano hands easily undoing bad knots in a plush bowtie and redoing them the right way.

Armie swallowed, shrugged, looked off toward where Ford was half laying in Timmy's bowl of popcorn and Harper was unsuccessfully trying to get her brother out without drawing any attention to their shenanigans. He chuckled, amused, and Timmy did too when he followed his friend's warm gaze.

"There," the younger boy said with a flourish after a moment, taking a step back.

Armie checked out his costar's handiwork in the mirror in the hallway, nodding appreciatively.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Another phone call from Joe confirmed that Armie would in fact be getting his Variety award tonight. But they'd already called and cancelled on the babysitter so Timmy would still watch them and Armie would just get a fill-in to present him instead. No biggie, right?

A bit miffed by it all, Armie disappeared again upstairs to his en suite taking two steps at a time and returned with perfectly gelled hair, tugging on the suit jacket draped over his arm while Timmy watched his every move suspiciously from the leather sofa, teeth nibbling at kernels carefully.

Finally, with lapels lint-less and sleeves properly buttoned, Armie relinquished his patience and turned.

"What?"

"You never got this jittery on the press tour."

It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't a statement. It felt like a question Armie wasn't sure how to answer.

In the end, his subconscious did the talking. 

_"I had you with me on the press tour."_

Timothée blinked.

"Oh."

*******

Timothée didn't know the other Hammers would be there in Austin, but he did know he was happy he was there himself. Armie had smoked through three cigarettes already (Timmy had only helped with one) on the limo drive over and it made him wish they were back at the house, bro-hugging in the hallway again because Timmy had said  _"So why don't I still go with you to this one? I'm already here. That's why I came."_  and Armie had said  _"Why don't you present my award for me anyway? That's what I called in my favor for"_  and Timmy had immediately breathed out  _"Yeah, shit, of course man"_  and that was that.

Nick had thankfulky come by last minute to watch the kids- an easy task since they were worn out already from a long day- and Timmy had thrown on the most presentable outfit in his suitcase with a bit of some curl-tucking and cologne spraying and they were out the door.

They'd be meeting Armie's parents at the AFS Cinema, Armie had told him. 

That's when Armie had lit his first cigarette, the forced image of calm cool and collected behind Ray Bands and a cloud of smoke.

_All smoke and mirrors,_  Timmy thought, turning away from his reflection in the shades, giving Armie's hand a reassuring squeeze before pulling his Beats over his ears and blasting Kid Cudi the rest of the way.

*******

_"This is really easy for me to do because I'm young, obviously my career's been very short, but I've been fortunate enough to work with a lot of really great actors, a lot of great human beings ... but the relationship I've had with Armie is unlike the relationship I've had with other actors,"_

Glances, megawatt smiles, a sarcastic but appreciative eyeroll.

_"In an industry for young male actors, there aren't a ton of road maps that you can point at and say, 'That's somebody I want to become,' and I felt this way since I met him ... I'm just all the better for it. It's humanity, it's loving fatherhood, it's being a loving husband, it's hard work..."_

*******

Elizabeth called one last time during the awards to congratulate Armie. He missed the call, too busy popping champagne and playfully jabbing a crimson Timmy- his  _dance partner-_  in the ribs, Armie's passive aggressive way of saying thank you for coming, for the speech, for the fuckin dozens and dozens of roses piled around them in the backseat that all had different forms of  ** _Congratulations!_**  scrawled on their cards in French and English alike.

It was an award night and Armie had won something and all he felt was grounded and humble and very, very grateful. 

"Merci, Sweet Tea. Seriously."

Somehow that encompassed it all.

"De rien,  _muvi star_."

*******

They spent the ride from Austin to Dallas joking and wheezing about "Did you see your mom's face when I explained what blocking was and how much we had to do it?" or "Shit, you think she thought I was serious about being obsessed with your thighs dude?"

Armie and Timmy realized it was late, they were a little tipsy on victory champagne, and they hadn't eaten since Mooyah. A quick text correspondence confirmed that Nick didn't mind babysitting long enough for them to grab a celebratory dinner and then Armie was giving the driver directions to the best barbecue spot in Dallas. He didn't want the night to end.

*******

Timothée was amazing but dumb and Armie wanted to flick him with his bowtie. And then apologize because sad Timmy was kinda heartbreaking.

"Why are you so worried, you absolute dumbass genius? You're going to kill every role you land after this. Actually, you're going to land every role you audition for after this. You'll be in all the movies. Call Me By Your name was just the sta-"

Armie's intent speech was cut off by a hiccup and a drunken Timmy gently smacking his blonde comrade's forehead to effectively shut the man up.

His green eyes were hooded, ghostly finger shoved against his mouth.

"Ssh. Thanks, but ssh. You're the only star tonight. Lets focus on you."

There was some more companionably quiet nibbling on fried green tomatoes after that and at one point they got up while their order was being made to have at a few rounds of pool in the pub's corner ("I don't think we're playing right, Tim. The white ball's gone") and then they were sitting again at the bar, dopey and a little more hungry, and Armie was still put off by the fact that his friend didn't know just how good he was so he turned to face the boy who's chin was burrowed in bunched up flannel and crossed arms.

"Seriously. With all your talent, you'll be amazing. You _are_ amazing."

A waiter brought them their steaming dishes.

Timmy shook his head, shoveling hot mac and cheese into his mouth because he was starving ("It does taste like losing your virginity to a pot of cheesy gold" "Fuckin told you man") and blushing profusely, nudging Armie lightly and then scrambling to right the tipsy man when he almost went flying off his stool.

Armie's eyes were wide. So were Timmy's. "Shit. I almost just died."

Both guys blinked at each other.

And then they were snorting out drunken laughs, smacking the bar top, making the chummy, potbellied owner Elvis ("So you're Armie's barbecue dealer? I'd like to get hooked too, my man. Load this plate up with your best shit") cut off their supply of Jack and replaced it with foaming, nonalcoholic rootbeer, fond smirk making his white beard twitch.

"Maybe," Timmy finally murmured when they could breathe and their vision wasn't blurred by happy tears. His food was suddenly very interesting. "Maybe I'll be great or maybe I'll flop, but nothing tops _Call Me By Your Name_ for me. I was my best in Crema, with Luca and Esther and Michael and Amira and you. I... I won't top the me I was- _am_ with you. So... yeah."

It was said simply, matter of factly, a bit more soberly and precise than the slurred ramblings they'd been uttering all night. It was quiet between the two until Timmy was moving on to the brisket Armie had honorably ordered for him and obliviously turning his attention to the old Lakers game playing behind the bar.

His friend was still staring at him though, leaning forward on his elbows, gaze heavy and reverent and a little in awe, throat closing behind the softest smile.

They didn't speak again for the rest of their meal, for the rest of the Lakers game, even keeping expressions down to snorts and eyerolls when the night's dessert special turned out to be homemade peach cobbler with a dollop of pecan ice cream.

Armie and Timmy split it. Snapped a photo with their mouths full and eyes crossed and sent it to Luca. Almost posted it but then thought twice, wanting to keep this as one of those private memories the public wouldn't know about.

*******

They didn't leave Armie's secret barbecue spot until Elvis himself was leaving the building. They didn't stop smiling until they'd tiptoed upstairs to kiss Ford and Hops goodnight, thanking Nick for everything, and passed out together on the living room sofa, full and exhausted and content.

Armie hadn't remembered to return a certain phonecall, but he remembered to toss a gravelly _"Night, T"_ into the dark toward the oppsote end of the sofa where his friend was curled up before sleep dragged them both down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't know, yes that's really Timmy's emo ass speech.
> 
> Mooyah is a real food joint and everybody needs to try the Double Diablo burger once in their life. Shakes are good too.
> 
> I really do love Liz. So does Armie.
> 
> Let me know if it should end here or if I should be typing up another chapter. Peace xxx


	2. Hell's Kitchen's Only Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to stay as a platonic mess of one-shots but here we are? Woops.
> 
> I was just thinking about Dallas BBQ cause I was craving some and then I thought of the first "chapter" of this and then I was like LOL imagine Praecoquere Armie being all annoyed like "its not real BBQ" and then this happened so here's an update 10 years later. Apparently hunger makes me write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the earlier half of the Straight White Men era. Armie is hot in a black Adidas tracksuit and scruff, Timmy is adorable as a sad boy in a pink cap.
> 
> Also ofc these things didn't actually happen so don't come for me @ celebrity lawyers.

_**New York, During the Straight White Men timeframe...**_

 

"And, like, man, why would you wanna get a peach signed?!"

"Whyyyyy would you get a peach signed?" Armie added, if not a little more harmonious and lazily intrigued than Timothée's 2am incredulity. 

They'd spent the night perusing Times Square, because sure the blonde had done it before but he hadn't properly done it if Timothée Hal Chalamet wasn't his tour guide, and then they'd stopped at a Dallas Barbecue because _"no damn way there's a food chain with this title and I wasn't called in to judge their knockoff attempt at babyback ribs"._

So the pair had gone inside to cool down from June's edge with near fishbowls of vibrant alcoholic slush, mini umbrella and all, and to, of course, judge Dallas BBQ's knockoff attempt at babyback ribs (that weren't really all that shit so much as _the_ shit upon Armie's closer, reluctantly love-(rib)-bitten inspection). _"Geographical Dallas still tops,"_ he'd grumbled, letting their 3rd shot flow into their 4th shared goblet of slush. Timmy had dipped a fry in Armie's ketchup, smirking, and nodded in agreement.

Leaning forward on eager elbows, remembering the Austin awards and famished for conversation after the past few months, Timothée asked, _"So what's up with Elvis, anyway? How is he?"_

***

And after stuffing their faces and drinking so many daiquiris that Timmy half expected to pee blue, they were back to sauntering through his city, Timmy always a few steps ahead (as every tour guide should be) swinging shopping bags in his hands, peering at street signs under the bill of his cap to make sure they were still going the right way, slurring a word or two in a sentence or eight as he metaphorically scratched his head over how nuts their fans could be sometimes.

Armie, always a few steps behind (as every clueless, half drunk friend tends to be), wasn't sure how the conversation got here when he'd been asking if he should shave soon, and if anyone else sometimes mixed up young John Travolta for one of the Baldwins (or did white guys just really look a lot alike in the 90s?), but he wanted to be supportive anyway. He also wanted to get rid of his tracksuit jacket in all this heat, so he did.

"Weird how they really latched onto the peach thing," he added, burping behind his hand (that's called _class_ , thank you). "Aren't they just gonna rot? Like, boom, autograph gone. My signature is now decomposing."

He took another confident stride toward the end of the street and blinked when that brought him face to face with a streetlight.

_Now how'd that get there?_

"We are all of us decomposing," Timmy replied solemnly (drunk-ly), shaking his head, unaware that the big blonde dude that was just next to him was almost knocked out by a pole.

Also, what does that even mean?

"'m just sayin, you masturbate with an ass-shaped fruit one time and the world won't let you forget about it. Never regretted an orgasm so much in my life. Are you listening Toto?"

Armie rubbed his head as he sidestepped the streetlight, quickly throwing it an apology, before jogging to catch up. They had this thing for using aliases when they hung out in public together, just another little stupid thing they did the few times they could manage meeting up between this month of rehearsals and that month of filming. This time Armie was Toto, Timmy was Dorothy. They agreed "yellow brick road" was too much of a mouthful and wouldn't suffice for their drunken game of Marco Polo- or _Dorothy Toto_ \- in the fish tank section of Petsmart (security kicked them out before they got to see the neon tetras which admittedly put a bit of a damper on things).

"Well, buddy," Armie started with something very distant from an inside voice, cutting off a monologue about accusations of fruit molestation ("Wait, dude... that's a thing?" "I mean someone made a tumblr page and _that_  compromising screencap of me is on it floating around with gifs of people that are into banana-play, so its a thing"). Armie cleared his throat and came down a few decibels.

"I've got just the thing to take your mind off of whatever's actually bothering you but you're disguising behind this random rant and those ugly shirts you compulsively bought."

Wow, how downright rude. Timothée clutched his H&M bags like a scandalized grandma would her pearls, ready to feign _"I dunno what you're talking about, I'm fine and genuinely wanted these"_ , but he was bad at acting if the cameras weren't rolling and he forgot to defend himself the second Armie drew his hand from his Adidas pocket with a flourish.

"Yeah, that's right. Who's the friggin best?" Armie winked as he dusted lint from his blunt, brows waggling excessively. Timothée grinned.

"You got me refer?" 

It was a whisper. He could cry.

Armie rolled his eyes.

"Duh, T. It's the least I can do for someone willing to fly out to keep this washed up homesick cowboy company."

Very kind, but... "Please don't call yourself a cowboy again. Especially not with that accent. It's embarrassing."

"As long as you don't call my weed "refer" again. It's both insulting and oddly triggering."

Timmy frowned. "Of what?"

"Of my mom's head rotating 360 degrees while she yelled my ears off that one time she found "refer" under my bed."

It'd been an ugly mess. Apparently weed doesn't get you into heaven and his mom needed an hour to tell him so.

The two shuddered, rounding a corner. That woman could be pretty intimidating.

"Right," Timothée apologized. "Bad childhood memories. Sorry."

Armie seemed less phased.

"Oh, no, that was last Thanksgiving."

Another shudder. Right. _Continuous mommy issues._

"Anyways, I thought you were too pure to try and get your hands on any of this stuff yourself and figured I'd gift Hell's Kitchen's only angel with a sample from my personal stash. I mean it's stupid to assume you've been like dying to smoke or whatever, but we had some silly times with it during the press tour and you just sounded off on the phone so I thought you might..."

Timmy stopped walking, grabbing a shirtsleeve to bring Armie's attention to his heartfelt stare.

"Thanks man. The thought was really sweet."

Armie blinked. Okay. 

Insert smug joke here to make this less heavy.

"I've been known to be that from time to time. Sweet. The cassanova I am."

He chuckled because now was the time to and looked at where Timmy's hand was still clutching his t-shirt, faintly noting that he seemed to miss having a tactile buddy around, faintly noticing that he missed Timmy's smell.

Filing that away to think over: **never**.

"You would do it for me if I was down."

"I would."

Plus, well, it _wasn't that big of a deal_. But neither costar was sober enough to understand why they were getting this sentimental over some (okay, it was good quality) weed. They had daiquiris running through their veins, though. Straight lines, clear judgment, and proper diction were their worst enemies at the moment.

And maybe they both kinda got that Timothée was a little wired and this downtime was very much needed. Friends are for dropping everything and catching the quickest flight to your award show or your lonely hotel room in the city. Friends are for introducing you to their barbecue dealer in Texas and getting you the good weed. They were best friends. 

"Sooooo you got a light for that?"

Armie leaned against a wall, fumbling in his pockets for his lighter even as he asked, "You don't wanna go home first and do this?"

"I mean I kinda don't feel like waiting but... home as in your place or home as in mine?"

Armie raised a shoulder and held the blunt with his teeth, lighting the thing with a match ("Ancient" "Easy on the old man jokes or you don't get any" "Mybad" "Good boy") since no one was around, taking a pull and plopping down on the steps of the beat down Dunkin Donuts at their backs because he kinda didn't feel like waiting either. When he noticed there wasn't a particular cap-wearing brunette sat next to him, Armie reached up blindly for his hand. Timmy let it pull him to the stairs in a flurry of shopping bags and chuckles and sighed when another hand fed him the blunt, muscles relaxing from tension he didn't know was in them.

They sat in silence for a bit, arms around bent knees, watching a few people climb up from the train station nearby to scramble home. It was fairly late, or early, whichever way you chose to look at the clock or the angle of the moon. But it was nice and quiet (for Saturday in New York) and sitting there shooting the warm summer breeze felt like sinking into a plush bed after a rough day.

"You know Pauline had to change her top three favorite ice cream flavors after she saw the movie?" Timothée mused, voice low, not wanting to break their bubble of blue-black peace in this dim crevice of the city. "Now they're rum raisin, white chocolate, and pistachio." His fingers counted them off.

"First of all, is your sister okay or has her sense of flavor malfunctioned? Secondly, what were her favorites before?"

Timothée offered an embarassed grin to nothing in particular. "Rum raisin took the place of peaches and cream."

_Ahh. Back to the peaches. Of course._

Armie snorted, blew his smoke out to mess up the ring of o's Timmy had made in the air, took another pull and savored it this time because the banter made his friend laugh.

Tiredly, though.

Armie noticed how Timmy had faint purple bruises under his eyes and more slack than pep in his step and Armie'd suggested a guys weekend because they were both free for the time being (and maybe he was feeling weird being alone in New York ("'S not really my turf and I got lost trying to go to the deli this morning so help... please" was how he'd phrased it)) but now Timmy looked tired and Timmy wasn't being a funny adorable drunk like usual and Armie was trying not to worry too much because was his friend okay? 

"So," the older of the pair sighed, resting his head back. "How come you're suddenly a peach oppressor? What's up?"

A little upset he couldn't think straight, Timothée shook his head at Armie's next pass. He didn't like that he was killing the vibe by feeling like shit and was starting to think they should have this conversation sober. But, cest la vie.

"I dunno. The usual. Guess I'm missing Italy."

_Figured as much._

"I guessed that when you facetimed Luca to decide on which shirt to buy. "

"He has good taste."

"Those shirts seriously beg to differ."

Timmy chuckled lightly, cheek to knee. "I don't think he had the best options to pick from. Besides, he made you my freakin Oliver. That counts for something."

Armie tapped out what was left of the blunt and stored it away, letting his head roll to the side to watch Timmy watch him. New York City was really pretty at night. Green was a nice color.

(They weren't sober enough for this conversation.)

"Well..."

Armie didn't notice he was playing with the hand that hadn't left his since he'd pulled Timothée to sit. Didn't really notice that the hand was squeezing back ever so lightly.

"He made you my Elio. That counts for everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think this is gonna be where I dump Charmie stuff that correlate with real life... like I wanna write something for last year's Coachella etc (it won't be in order with irl timelines, just random.
> 
> Feedback is welcome and appreciated. if you made it this far you're a trooper, mwah! xxx


	3. A Not Very Festive Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some unfinished business leftover from the night of the Austin Awards (or the morning after, really) and Armie chooses Timmy's Coachella night to confront them.
> 
> Or, I explain why Timmy was playing Mystery of Love at Coachella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: this makes a crapload more sense as a precursor to the last chapter but I suck so have fun being confused I guess... :P

_**Indio, California, April 14th, 2018**_

 

Timothée was letting out peach-flavored dragon sighs and daydreaming about Italian sunsets on his night at Coachella.

He decided that In-And-Out wasn't half as good as Mooyah and all the girls here made for shitty dance partners. Drunk enough to hug strangers and pronounce his name the French way, Timmy found a quiet place away from the sticky crowds, pulled out his phone, and smiled as he hit play.

A few moments later the fans would go crazy, a man would rev his engine because he needed to get somewhere a little faster than before now, a sister would text her fragile brother out of concern... and eventually Timothée would answer _"Me okay xx"_ truly thinking he was.

But for now, he sighed out his hookah in the middle of the desert and remembered.

For now he forgot that he kissed a cheek in Austin, freaked out, and flew away.

***

Timothée rubbed his burning face, plucked off his cap, and tried to have fun. He was hot and sweaty and jetlagged from catching such a last minute flight to appease Abel's last minute invitation, but these were all minor things that helped distract from the weight of his cellphone burning a hole in his back pocket.

Social media was going haywire. The fans were making noise.

They were elated, emotional, beyond amused with speculation- because who listens to the soundtrack (yes, Timmy had listened to the whole damned thing) of their old movie when Tyler the Creator was name-dropping you at his set? Who looks like they're dressed for a freakin funeral, wearing too many layers in a  _desert_  and hiding under a baseball cap when you've been rubbing shoulders with famous icons, having been elbow deep in failed auditions back at Hell's Kitchen this same time last year?

(Timothée, of course. That's who.)

He hadn't meant to be so obvious and he hadn't meant to be such a party pooper in telling Abel he might head back to the hotel. He really didn't mean to stumble off alone in the middle of Indio upset for reasons alcohol wasn't letting him remember. But now he was dry heaving, too many drinks in, pausing for breath with his forehead against a palm tree and his eyes squeezed shut. Someone had shouted,  _"Mi amore!"_  and it made Timmy think of an afternoon in Crema, lazing around with a cup of wine balanced on his knee, snorting about how ironic it was that 'my love' and 'my death' sounded so similar in so many romance languages- coincidentally with someone who only ever spoke French to say his name.

Why did Timothée feel like he'd fallen flat on his ass? Hard?

It took a couple of minutes, but when the tired boy saw that the dusty earth was nearly eye-level, his lips fell into a lazy 'o'.

***

Hours later Timothée found himself squinting through the flashing neon that plagued his hotel, stumbling through a crowd of flower crowns and bandanas to get past the lobby to the elevator. He fought the urge to groan as he swiped his key card and kicked off his shoes, because- no- he wasn't about to get that far into his bag. There was nothing to be so upset about. His life was spectacular. A good shower and a smoke would cure him easy peasy.

So Timmy did the first. And then he was standing in his room with wet toes curling into plush electric blue carpet, towel wrapped around his waist and head cocked disbelievingly to the side before he could find a lighter because _someone was at the door and he looked like a dream_.

Timmy was at a loss for words, but he managed, "How'd you get here?" in something a little more telligible than wacked out slurs.

Armie Hammer shrugged as if he was supposed to be leaning against the doorframe of a suite in Coachella Valley, looking down at Timothée with a bookbag hiked on his shoulder and shades on the bridge of his sweat-beaded nose. He was donning a rumpled Pineapple Express t-shirt and sweatpants like fashion was a statement he couldn't be bothered to make, beard growing out around a mouth that was twisted with the hint of a forced smile and body thrumming with awkward tension.

"I took some liberties I probably shouldn't have," he offered by way of explanation.

Timothée shook his head, quick to reassure that Armie could take as many liberties as he wanted if it meant that he was actually there, in the flesh, hunching over at the shoulders with the same curvature Timmy arched back at the neck.

He waved the man inside the room sluggishly, still processing, wishing he was exponentially sober.

"Come on in."

***

"So... Sufjan?"

It was Timothée's turn to shrug as he carded fingers through his dark hair, fully dressed and thoroughly mind fucked.

Armie hadn't answered his texts or calls in something of a month. So why and how was he here, now, sitting opposite the milky glow of a t.v nobody was watching, and pretending to be too focused on pulling from the joint in his mouth as if this wasn't totally out of the blue?

Timmy tried to think of a decent way to explain that Mystery of Love video he'd made and settled on blaming alcohol instead. The last time he'd ranted about his feelings, he'd been left on read. No need to be ghosted twice.

"Its a good song," he smiled. "Plus, I get nostalgic when I'm drunk I guess."

Of course, Armie and the rest of the Call Me By Your Name crew already  _knew_  that, but they were both seemingly playing dumb on a lot of things tonight.

Armie nodded,  _aha_ -ing quietly, passing the blunt cordially enough yet somehow making Timmy feel like he'd said the wrong thing by barely saying anything at all. The boy sighed, took his pull while rubbing the back of his neck and chewing at his lip when the smoke cleared.

He'd been terrified he'd messed up a great friendship and now that he had the chance to say his share in person, Timmy didn't know how to go about it. They hadn't made eye contact, hadn't been trying to fill in their awkward silences, and hadn't even hinted at addressing the elephant in the room. It was crushing them with it's presence.

Armie took a look around in the dark, leaned forward on his knees after, and offhandedly asked- cerulean eyes once more on the t.v- "So who's the other bed for?"

Maybe it was Armie's tone and the insinuation there, or maybe it was the sudden blast of hotel A.C, but Timothée squirmed. His knees came to his chest and his gaze fell to the floor where the ashes he was flicking lay.

"I- um, I'm sharing a room with Abel."

"The Weeknd?"

"Yeah. He was my invite."

"Huh. Cool dude. Happy for you getting out there and mingling with the stars."

The younger of the two pretended not to notice the artificial merriment crackling in the air like stifling plastic as he got up, abrupt and small, heading to the mini fridge to fetch them drinks. He felt eyes on his back as he popped their caps with his teeth, something that would usually earn him a joking, _"You're not making Hollywood dentist type money yet, go easy on the chompers"_.

There was only quiet now, though. So screw sobering up.

Both costars sat watching t.v together for about an hour sipping their beers, sharing a joint, high strung and reserved on opposite ends of the couch. No one thought to switch the channel from infomercials, if not at least for the sake of appearances. No one thought much at all, really.

***

"So you were there tonight? At Coachella?"

Armie let his head roll to the side along the back of the sofa until Timothée's own red eyes were blinking back at him.

"No." And his next breath was a high sigh. "I was in L.A and decided to take a little road trip. Found myself heading to Palm Springs when the first picture of you 'chilling' got out. Then I was steering in this direction a good 10 minutes before you posted the video."

"Just like that, you came to see me?" Timmy asked, inquiring through his bangs and around a nail he'd taken to chewing.

"Uhuh," Armie hummed, snorted, shook his head with disbelief at the ceiling. "Just like that."

A lapse of silence.

"That's like a two hour drive."

"Mmm, nearly 3 when you keep stopping to tell yourself its a bad idea. Kept pulling over telling myself I should go home and forget about it."

Timothée's mouth poked out to the side, suddenly interested in his clammy palms, a loose thread in his sweatpants, the ceiling Armie was dazed by.

"You still mad at me, then?" he asked, shifting, not really wanting to know the answer.

This was all so fucked. They were best friends and now sitting together felt like torture because he'd been a drama queen and made a hasty exit after the Austin Film Awards for no sensible reason. It was a kiss on a cheek. He'd been sleepy and happy and a little confused and he'd just really missed the days from shooting when that kind of behavior didn't warrant an explanation. Why'd he just up and leave Dallas knowing how that could come off to someone as surprisingly sensitive and self-blaming as Armie?

Armie set down his beer and sunglasses, cracked his knuckles, ran a hand through his hair- one, two, three times, working up the courage Timothée didn't realize he needed. 

"Look man. I don't really think I was ever really mad at you."

"What?"

"Yeah."

The confession changed the atmosphere. Timmy could swallow, but the pressure still hurt, and his brows were impossibly furrowed.

"But you wouldn't talk to me for weeks? Even when I said I was sorry for ditching you like that."

Now Armie was pink and sheepish looking and the brunette was even more confused, turning to face him better.

"I think I was just being an ass giving you the silent treatment when you really didn't do anything, T. I mean you explained why you felt awkward, why that made you leave, and your explanation made sense. I  _understood_  you missing Crema because shit- I miss it everyday Timmy. And not wanting to have to keep on saying goodbye to our moments cause they're, I don't know, special? They feel monumental? That shit keeps me up at night sometimes because why the hell did you and Luca and the film effect me that much? I mean that's gotta be insane, right? Weird at the very least..."

Timothée was frowning even though Armie had launched up and started pacing, unable to see. The brunette rose on his knees to face the guy, hands clenched into the back of the sofa with a vice-like grip.

"No, Armz, that's not weird."

Armie wasn't listening.

"I wasn't able to get that across before, not by myself. I'd just act moody if I was particularly in my feelings, but you'd taken what I felt and put it into words and a kiss on the cheek and I didn't know how to respond to that. So I guess I acted like I was offended you left so suddenly- spat some shit about you being an impolite house guest- and I knew it ate you up because you thought I was uncomfortable-"

"I did."

"But that pissed me off even more cause it's _me_ and why the fuck would _you_ ever make me uncomfortable? How could you with all we've done- all we've been through? I just didn't know how to say that without yelling, without feeling like I was getting too touchy about something so simple, and then I did that anyway."

"I know," Timothée said plainly, because he did.

He knew that Armie wasn't always the best at being expressive and didn't always know what he wanted to express in the first place. Timothée was the exact opposite. Its why they worked so well.

"So yeah," Armie huffed looking relieved and apologetic and exhausted all at once, coming to a halt in his pacing directly in front of Timmy. "I was just being an ass. And saying it all out loud... it was so stupid Tim. I can hear how dumb that shit was."

They cracked twin grins, a little wobbly around the edges and a little glossy-eyed.

"I really thought I fucked things up, dude." Timmy chuckled, voice wavering.

Armie looked down, concerned, fumbled forward in the dark and found Timmy's arm, then his shoulder, then his neck, cupping it to pull Timmy's head gently to his chest until the smaller of the two had leaned over to rest there comfortably. Armie waited, quiet and expectant as if he knew that a few seconds later Timmy would be sniffling, then chuckling wetly with self deprication- ready to crack a joke about how he was such a pussy when he was drunk (or high, whichever one was influencing him more) and he'd be fine soon.

Armie held on until it happened, and then Timmy was stuffing his face into yellow fabric and tan skin trying his hardest to cry without making noise.

"I'm sorry I'm so stupid," Armie murmured into a head of curls, eyes shut, body relaxed for the first time in a while.

They'd be fine. It was an unnecessary hiccup in their dynamic, was all. They had let it drag on for too long and now the damage control was taking a bigger toll. But they would be fine.

"I _missed_ you."

A wry kiss on a wet cheek in repsonse, just like Timmy's lethargic cheek kiss when they'd woken up on Armie's couch in Dallas. An homage to what started all this mess.

"I missed you too, Sweet Tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap I updated (with a short filler but sTILL). Yall notice I make them drunk/high in every chapter? I'll try to let them have tons of sober moments in the future. As always, kudos and comments are hella appreciated! xxx


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